


To Want Another

by OnwardHo (rayoflight)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Pon Farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:44:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayoflight/pseuds/OnwardHo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I filled this prompt from the second kink meme. </p><p>'S/U pon farr</p><p>In all fics I've read, Spock and Uhura meet before Spock's firts pon farr and court each other politely. But what if their relationship started with Spock's pon farr? Circumstances left for the author's imagination, though I would prefer it not to be rape.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Want Another

Contrary to what one might think, Spock's subconscious is seldom an empty place. It is a place filled with coping mechanisms which form the necessary dam holding back a tsunami of emotions. Calculations, facts, musical pieces, nuances of the many Terran books and poems he has read, and reasonable next steps mulled over in place of feeling. Beneath these are extreme thoughts, often as ugly as they are sudden and vicious, locked in place by the comfortable routine of meditation and logic.   
  
On the occasion that he sleeps, these thoughts come to the fore and he wonders what it would be like to crush the fingers of the next Terran man who presumes to shake his hand without permission or how a former school tormentor's face might look after he destroys it.

...The latter, at least, he knows the answer to.   
  
As he sleeps one night, his thoughts drift to T'Pring, his betrothed wife, a beautiful aloof creature. She kneels before him in ceremonial robes, her right hand held up in offering, -in supplication.  
  
Sacred words leave her lips and he answers them in kind. She leans forward, tilting her head to the side, her long elegant neck bent back. But as he dips his own lips to taste her there, she changes. Her skin darkens, her body becoming more slight, her face becoming softer, sweeter....  
  
She becomes his phonetics assistant. This is... _alarming_ , but also exciting. He feels a heated anticipation that had not been there with his unconsummated wife. He yearns, he wants, he _needs_  this. -Needs  _her_.  
  
His imagined self roughly pushes her robes away and presses her into the ground. His fingers find her meld-points while his length finds her other entrance, so humanly wet. He penetrates both at once, the painful urge to do so insuppressible.   
  
His groan of relief brings him abruptly to consciousness. Driven by a carnal animalism beyond heat, an instinct he can no more ignore than the need for sustenance after a long fast, his body shakes with it, and he is quickly overtaken with anger and frustration that it is not at hand. He snarls and punches his headboard, injuring his hand.  
  
He examines the swelling scrapes on his knuckles and the green smudges on his headboard, grateful that the pain gives him something else to focus on. But it is not enough.  
  
He masturbates then, for the first time since he was boy, granting himself a temporary balm as he imagines himself becoming lost in her.

 

\--

 

His relief is short-lived.  
  
Five hours of intermittent meditation and masturbation barely dull the ache. His control now feels as thin as his patience. His mind and body tingle with the need for connection with Nyota.  
  
He leaves for his office early, avoiding any contact with others, lest they find out his embarrassing condition. He intends to finish his work before she can arrive, contact his homeworld, -contact  _T'Pring_  and bond with his intended mate. This is logical.  
  
He can not, will not impose himself on his colleague and friend. Beyond what he feels for her now, he holds her in too high regard for that. He knows her well-enough to know it would not be welcome.  
  
She has many suitors, all of whom take a backseat to her work and friends. She is content to not have the added responsibility of a mate. He understands and respects that kind of singular drive, the logic of not letting a mate become an unnecessary distraction in the path to her ambition.   
  
He also understands why so many pursue her. Her sharp wit and natural beauty is enhanced by a justified sense of confidence; softened by her easy-going nature. She gets along with everybody,  _even himself_. He can admit that Terrans usually find him difficult.   
  
There is also an open-mindedness about her, a sense of consideration for the differences in other beings that is extraordinary, even for Starfleet. She is the only Terran who has not attempted to make him more human. Nor does she tease or make inconsiderate comments about his Vulcan cultural habits. She simply allows him to be who he is. She has no idea how great a comfort and relief this is for him as a singular 'other' in this foreign culture where the former is the norm.   
  
He feels guilty even thinking of her in the primitive way of his people, as if he violates her somehow by wanting her in such a base way.  
  
As he ponders this, his sharp ears pick up the familiar footfalls of her regulation boots and he stands up suddenly, intending to leave...but he knows even as he does this, that it is too late.

 

\--

  
As she enters his office, he stands awkwardly, his eyes cast down - _must not look at her_ -, his arms loose at his sides.

"Good morning, Spock. I didn't expect to see you here. I know,  _I know_ , I should have let you know, but I wanted to get a little early work in before courses resume tomorrow." she says, completely oblivious to his condition.  
  
He manages a murmured "good morning." and lifts his eyes in time to catch her reaching across her desk to set a stack of padds on it's surface.

As usual, she's organizing them in the order that she intends to work on them. Most logical. This exercise always affords an interesting shift in his perspective of her body in her uniform, a turn he would normally find quite benign externally, but at the circumstances...  
  
The exposed length of thigh and stretch of her skirt across her bottom is riveting. He swallows, dryly.  
  
"Why are you here so early?" she asks, cutting into his thoughts.  
  
"I had hoped to have my office to myself." he replies, a little sharply, his hands balling into fists.  
  
"Oh. I'm sorry. I can come back later."

She begins to gather up her padds,  _reaching again..._  
  
He is behind her now, has no idea when or how, his feet simply disconnect with his brain and carry him over to what his mind and body so desperately wants.  
  
He grabs her wrist, a tad too tightly, forcing her to drop her padds back to her desk. She turns to look at him sharply, her eyes half-way between warning and concern. If this were anyone other than Spock, he would have gotten a fist to the gonads.   
  
Again, he swallows. His throat is dry.   
  
"I _need_..." It is plea and a demand.

 

\--

 

"Spock." she says. 

"This isn't like you. -You're _hurting_ me."

This makes him drop her wrist, which she begins to rub.

"What's  _wrong_  with you?!"

His eyes dart downward and he blinks twice, looking stricken and ashamed.

 

"I apologize. I cannot -I _can't._.."

She is closely examining him now, certain that he's sick. In the two years that she's known him, he has never used a contraction.

"Spock. What's wrong? Tell me." she says, stooping a little to try to get a look into his eyes.

He shuts his eyes tight and tries to ground himself, tries to trick his mind and body into a false sense of solitude...away from the temptation of her mind and body.

"Spock, please don't shut me out. I'm your friend. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's wrong."

 

He gives her no response. He doesn't trust himself to.

"Maybe, I should get the doctor -" she says halfway to herself.

"- _NO!_ \- No doctors. No outsiders should know..."

"- Know  _what_ , Spock?"

"It is...  _my season._ "

 

He admits this with immense shame, his inflection he hopes making his meaning clear. His emotional control is so lax now, it must be.

" _Your?_  -" her eyes sweep over his entire form, stopping at the sizable tent in his pants. 

 

 

\--

 

 

"Oh... Okay." she says, carefully controlling the shock she's feeling, along with the urge to laugh.

 

That's the last thing he needs. To say nothing of a loss of emotional control,  _this_  particular kind must be especially humiliating for a Vulcan.

"This is a normal Vulcan thing." She makes the question a statement, intending to get him to stop chastising himself and appeal to his sense of logic.

He nods.

 

"...Then can you wait it out?"

He shakes his head back-and-forth. "It is not something that can be easily averted. Meditation is very rarely successful and a fight to death is not a feasible option. Ordinarily, I would mate with my betrothed, but..." he looks up at Nyota significantly. 

" _I do not want her._ "

Uhura swallows.

 

"I see. And I take it you have to  _want_  the person you uh, mate with. Am I correct?"

"Yes."

Uhura takes a few deep long breaths in the seconds that follow, an eternity for Spock. This is a lot to lay on person all at once. And though Uhura's attitude about sex is far from puritan, she suspects that she may be out of her depth. Still, this is her friend, second only to Gaila in her heart here at the Academy.

"Okay then." she finally decides. "What do I do."

 

 

\--

 

 

His hands shake as he reaches for her meld points, mumbling hastily as he grasps both sides of her face. She lets out a small yelp at the immediate connection, her psyche intermingling with his overwhelmingly powerful one.

It's like pouring hot liquid into an ice-cold container. Her mind feels on the verge of splintering from the force of his need. It's all there, profane debauched longings that are the very antithesis of the Spock she knows. Gone is the gentle controlled Vulcan. In his place is a greedy covetous stranger bent on consuming her from the inside out..and he _is_ , and she is becoming a part of it, -a party to it, the fervent longing, the unceasing throb which pulses to the point of pleasure on the precipice of pain from head to toe. -The wanting part of it _does_ hurt.

She melts against him and she hears him sigh, feels his mind say,  _\- finally -_ , as her body yields to his desperate explorations.

She cries out when he enters her, even as slick as she is... His Vulcan anatomy and strength is a bit beyond her even as he tries for restraint, for her sake. His body simply won't obey. At least feeling his immeasurable pleasure at having her tempers her immediate discomfort.

 

It is blinding, - mind, body and soul connected, the high more intensely addictive than any drug she could conceive of. Tears roll down her face and she shudders hard as he ruts against her on the floor, her back hitching against it so brutally, she is sure there will be injuries, most certainly burns from the rough rasp of her uniform top. 

Eventually, he dispenses with that as well.

 

 

\--

 

 

She is already hot and sticky below, filled to capacity with him as he pours into her again, his hand tangled in her hair, his buttocks flexing between her thighs, his long groan of completion filling her ears.

Later, both are sated, relaxed, and content as he holds her nude form in his lap and absently strokes her hip. 

"Thank you." he whispers.

And she smiles.

She had entered into this with the intent of saving him, of fixing this for him, temporarily filling the void. But she now knows that her part would never have ended for him. From wanting to having _this_... 

...This is a beginning.


End file.
